Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Virtually nothing.
I spent the years I was supposed to be learning how to operate a vehicle in a tour van, then a tour bus, letting other people do the driving. I didn’t even get my driver’s license until several months after I moved to New Orleans, and finally got sick of calling a cab every time I wanted to hit the bigger grocery store a few miles from the apartment.
Story of your life, a voice in my head mutters as I swing my legs out the door. Always letting someone else do the driving.
Yeah, well, not anymore. Now, I go where I want, when I want, and I get there under my own power, a fact I prove by ignoring Clover’s repeated pleas to get to safety as I stumble around the back of the car.
My boot catches on a chunk of debris, and I almost go down, but I catch myself on Mr. Higgins’ trunk, my palms flat against the warm metal as I scan the scene.
Holy hell…
All four lanes are at a complete standstill, and I can see at least one other fender bender on the far side of the highway. Cars are stopped at weird angles, hazard lights are flashing, but the giant pick-up that hit us barely has a scratch on it.
I stare at it, stunned, as the driver backs farther away from Clover’s side of the car. The truck’s front grill and bumper are dented, but no serious damage has been done.
At least to this dickweed…
“No, wait,” I mutter as the man inside—a guy in a ball cap that I can’t see clearly through the tinted glass—shifts into drive and starts to pull forward. “No, you can’t! You can’t run away! Don’t you dare run away!”
But he’s already laying on the gas, picking up speed as he weaves through the few cars stopped in front of us, and blasts off down the highway.
“Someone get his plate!” I scream, jabbing a finger at the truck. “Get his plate number! His plate! Please!”
“On it!” a man in a business suit shouts from maybe ten yards ahead. I spot him, phone in hand, jogging after the guy in the truck, then a woman in scrubs moving toward us from farther away, tracking a path along the shoulder by the median.
A helper is coming.
A helper is coming, and another helper is filming the piece of human garbage who hurt Clover and is now running from the scene.
But the smoke from the hood is coming faster now, and the smell of burning plastic and engine parts or whatever’s cooking in there is awful. There’s no time to waste being grateful or pissed off.
We have to get Clover out of the car.
I stumble around to the driver’s side, waving for the nurse to join me as I reach the window. “My friend is hurt and trapped! Please. I need help getting her out!”
The woman nods and jogs faster.
I turn back to Clover. “Hold on, babes. A woman’s coming, a nurse. We’ll have you out in no time.”
I hope…
The damage is worse up close. The door is crumpled like a sheet of paper someone wadded in a fist, the window frame is bent, and shattered glass is everywhere.
Meanwhile, Clover looks even paler than she did before. But thankfully, the cut on her cheek—the source of the blood I saw—doesn’t seem too deep. Still, she’s probably going to need stitches.
Tiny, fine, perfectly executed stitches to make sure this doesn’t leave a mark on her. I refuse to let that fucker leave a mark on her.
“I’ll call Charlotte as soon as you’re headed to the hospital,” I assure her as I tug on the door handle, giving it a good yank, just in case. But it doesn’t budge so much as a centimeter. Mr. Higgins’ driver’s side is never opening again. “She’ll use her NOLA connections to make sure you get the best doctors possible, okay?”
“Okay,” Clover whimpers, flinching as something pops under the hood with enough force to make the entire car shudder.
That’s it, no time to wait for help.
Clover is getting out of there.
Now.
“All right, honey. Let’s do this. We’ll take you through the window, okay? Slow and easy.” Heart racing, I lean in through the shattered frame, careful of the glass clinging to the edges, and reach for her seat belt. Despite the Voice of Doom softly calculating our chances of dying in a violent explosion in my head, my hands are suddenly steady.
I free her in seconds, and Clover slumps forward, gasping.
“I know, I know,” I murmur in a soothing voice. “I’m sorry. Almost there. Can you boost yourself up a little bit? Just so I can get my hands under your arms?”
She braces her right hand—the good one—on the console, but only manages to lift herself an inch before she sags back into the seat with a sharp cry, shaking.